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Hermione was ninety percent sure that Tom Riddle was evil.
Not just Draco-Malfoy-sneering-at-Muggleborns-evil, Argus-Filch-terrorising-first-years-evil.
But a stone-cold murderer.
She was ninety-five percent sure that he was the Heir of Slytherin, and about eighty-five percent sure that he was somehow involved in Myrtle Warren’s untimely demise.
He treated her perfectly courteously, she had to admit. Great to work with as Head Girl. Never left his rubbish lying around the Heads' Dormitory.
(Actually, what had started the whole debacle was when her wealthy Muggle parents insisted on her accompanying them to a charitable foundation for all of London’s orphanages. But that was another story.)
Harry, dear Harry, who became a rabid, paranoid bloodhound every time Malfoy caught so much as a cold, he’s up to something, Hermione, I can see it in the way that he sneezes -
- Harry just swallowed his mash thickly at dinner, and mumbled something about Riddle being distant family, and besides, he’s always been polite to me, unlike that bloody ferret Malfoy, you know he pushed me off my broom last Quidditch match -
Ron, incredibly, was more helpful. He agreed to help tail Tom under the invisibility cloak, and reported a series of entirely normal interactions, let’s see, ‘Mione, he eats breakfast same time every day, he studies in the library with Astoria Greengrass on Mondays, carries her books and all, he patrols, he runs the Duelling club (you’re in it, why am I telling you this), he uses the Prefect bathroom for far too long, don’t tell me you want me to actually follow him in there, give the bloke some privacy, woman -
Myrtle was possibly the biggest waste of time, as Hermione left her bathroom with a headache, sodden shoes, and wailings of Tom’s so nice, he actually asks how I’m doing, and not just how I died, that’s all anyone wants to ask, your hair is so horrible -
So. It was left to her to take matters into her own hands.
Polyjuice was tried and true. She didn’t even have to brew it secretly - Hermione had some held in stasis from Potions in sixth year, as she did with all of her potions.
Getting a hair was simple enough. She brushed past Astoria Greengrass in the corridor and collected several long, blonde strands of hair. Hermione briefly considered transforming into Tom himself, but their shared dorm was immaculately clean. Paranoid bastard probably Vanished every trace skin cell. And it was bloody unlikely she’d be able to casually yank a hair from him - he was about a foot taller and considerably better at Duelling than she. The stealth approach would fail her.
No. Astoria was the better option. Tom and Astoria had a strange, formal courtship that had sprung up at the start of the year. He would hold doors open for her, she would go through them. He would carry her bookbag, she would allow it. Sometimes, when they were feeling particularly demonstrative, he would pull her chair out for her at the Slytherin dining table. Hermione had heard rumour from Ginny, who heard it from Lavender, who overheard Romilda Vane, who had eavesdropped on Pansy Parkinson, that Astoria had kissed Tom on the cheek in Hogsmeade last week.
Hermione had snorted into her porridge. Ah, Purebloods and their weird, sexless courtships. More power to them.
Yes, Astoria it would be. Hermione reasoned, if she were caught, she’d be able to weasel her way out easily.
At least, that was the theory.
It all went horribly wrong in the first twenty minutes.
She had planned for an evening when she knew Tom was holed up in some extra-curricular activity or the other.
Hermione had gulped down her potion, watched herself grow several inches, her face melting into an uncanny replica of Astoria’s. Pulling on Slytherin robes, the first stumbling block was a series of incredibly subtle, incredibly tricky Alarm spells around Tom’s bedroom door.
She cracked those easily. Five minutes down.
The next stumbling blocks were the three traps Tom had planted in his room. Very nasty traps, she sulked, rubbing her singed hand.
Fifteen minutes down.
She struck gold when she looked behind his wardrobe. There, a faint shimmer to the base, at the back -
- A book was concealed. A large, mouldering book, which looked ludicrously suspicious. Along with, perhaps more damningly, were reams and reams of carefully written notes.
Hermione saw that they were written in some form of code. No matter, she told herself as she stashed them in her bag. She’d have plenty of time to crack his code, figure out what dastardly plots Tom was scheming.
She tried not to get too excited as she fastened her bag, and made her way to the door.
Twenty minutes, in and out, maybe I can practice plaiting this hair?
Hermione opened Tom’s door -
- only to see Tom himself, hand reaching for the doorknob.
Tom stopped, suprise written in the slight furrow of his brow.
He stared at her for one, long moment -
- Hermione’s fingers plunged into her pocket for her wand -
“Well, this is a welcome surprise,” Tom said finally, smiling softly down. "It's good to see you here, like this."
Hermione’s brain nearly herniated out through her skull from shock. He couldn’t actually believe she was Astoria, could he?
She was frozen on the spot as he approached her, with a wistful expression she had never seen before on his face. His hand reached out to her face, and cupped her (Astoria’s?) cheek with a cool hand.
She should feel threatened, she distantly realised, his hand so close to her neck. Her heart raced in her chest as he snaked his other arm around her waist and tugged her close.
“I confess, I hardly knew what to think when you suggested this at dinner.” Tom breathed over her lips, and then chuckled.
Oh my god, she thought in horror.
“But Merlin, how did you convince Hermione to let you in? She’s a real rule-stickler, that one.”
He thinks I’m Astoria. He thinks I’m Astoria, come to seduce him.
“Darling?” Tom was staring at her with a tiny, genuine smile, obviously expecting her to reply.
Hermione managed a smile back. “Oh, you know, she was more than happy to, once I - explained,” she finished lamely, trying to flutter her eyelashes back at him.
Maybe, if I’m clever about this, I can get out of here.
Tom slid his hand inside her jumper.
She gulped.
And quickly.
“Did you have a nice day, Tom?” she said, Astoria’s voice alarmingly high-pitched, as she quickly laced her fingers with his, squeezing tightly, stopping them from moving. “What did you think of Professor Slughorn’s lecture on -”
At this, he gave a tinkling laugh, and brushed his nose with hers. He was so close that she could smell the mint on his breath, see the crinkles in the corners of his eyes.
“Really, love,” he murmured, sliding his hand from her cheek to the back of her head. “Are you bringing old Sluggy up at a time like this?”
Well, yes, for she was rather hoping that the mention of Slughorn would kill the mood -
But then, he kissed her chastely. Hermione - she really couldn’t help it - stiffened.
Tom pulled back immediately. “Are you okay?” He stroked the skin at the base of her skull soothingly. “If you’re nervous, or re-thinking this, I understand. I respect you, and you know I’d rather wait until marriage - that is, if your parents approve.”
Jesus Christ. Riddle wants to wait until marriage? Hermione let that sink in in disbelief.
Unfortunately, he continued to speak.
“We can just study together if you want? I have a couple more hours to do tonight before I turn in. Maybe -” he stared hopefully at her, up through thick, dark lashes “- do you think Hermione would mind terribly, if - maybe - you studied here tonight?"
No. That wouldn’t do - she had barely forty minutes left of Polyjuice. And she would rather die than be caught by him. Christ, she’d die from the shame alone.
Okay. Tom seemed to think that Astoria had snuck into his room for a quick snog.
She could do this. Kiss him for a bit, then get out. Purebloods were obsessed with purity before marriage; no way a respectable Pureblood girl like Astoria Greengrass would even roll up her shirtsleeves without a formal engagement. Anything more than a brief peck on the mouth pushed the borders of decency.
Hermione took a deep breath, hoping it came off as nervy.
“Of course I'm not nervous with you, Tom. I - I'm sorry. I don't have a lot of time today - I agreed to study in the library. I just," she sighed, and gave her best impression of a doe-eyed Astoria. "I just couldn't wait to see you, I’m not rethinking anything." Hermione trilled a laugh and prayed, hard.
He was still looking at her closely. Honestly, it was quite unnerving. Hermione had never seen such genuine affection on Tom Riddle's face for anyone. She’d always thought of him as close to asexual, above the human need for a relationship, always a respectable distance from any other student, let alone his girlfriend. She had assumed their relationship might just be convoluted Slytherin machinations, but -
- what if he actually liked Astoria?
Hermione suddenly felt extremely dirty, Polyjuiced as Tom’s girlfriend.
Fortunately, he interrupted with another low chuckle.
"Sneaking in here - it's all you've spoken about for weeks."
His eyes were molten. "I'm sorry - it's taken me a while to come around. But I won't be stopping you. If this is what you want - well, it's a little exciting, isn't it?"
Hermione swallowed, and stepped forward. It felt very strange being almost the same height as Tom, rather than craning her neck upwards.
“You’re right. Of course you’re right. This is exactly what I’ve been waiting for - let's not wait any longer.”
And then, summoning her nerve, she closed her eyes, and pressed her dry lips to his.
Chaste. Nice and prepubescent.
If she kept her eyes closed, this would be fine, she told herself. It would just feel like kissing any other boy, albeit whilst she was disguised as Astoria, and certainly not Tom Riddle, that wasn't weird at all, Jesusfuck which part was weirder -
Tom made a strange noise in the back of his throat, tilted his head to the side, parted his lips -
- and then really kissed her.
Her mind went blank as Tom licked her lower lip, snaking his tongue inside. Her scalp tingled as he threaded his hand through her hair, holding her steady. His other hand slipped further up her jumper, hot on her back. He kissed her searingly, thoroughly.
She kissed him back, automatically. How unfair, her brain lamented. Tom Riddle was quite a good kisser. She was rather hoping for him to be a wet fish.
She felt his hands trail down to cup her rear, steering her towards the bed. He pressed his body to hers. Somewhere, in the distant recesses of her analytical brain, she noted that he was not at all hard. That was okay, some boys took longer -
“Darling,” he breathed down at her, pulling away. “I want to take my time with you. Uncover your skin, inch by inch -” he tugged at her shirt.
As though a bucket of ice water had been thrown over her, Hermione jolted back to her senses. She pushed him away, reflexively. This would be Astoria’s body she’d be revealing to Tom, surely that was an bigger violation of Astoria, let alone girl code -
He merely laughed fondly at her, and pecked her on the forehead. She felt a bit sick.
“I had forgotten how shy you were. If I can confess - I am too. Don’t worry - look, let’s just study. Spend the evening together.”
She opened her mouth to reiterate that she really ought to be heading to the library, but he held a finger to her lips.
“Of course - how silly of me to forget. There was that other - thing - you mentioned,” he began, thoughtfully.
“Ah yes,” Hermione stammered, lost for words.
“Well, I would just feel dreadful rushing into it-”
“Rushing is good,” she interrupted, enthusiastically. How much time was left, thirty minutes?
Tom hummed in agreement. “You did speak about it at length. Awfully detailed. I must say, it shocked me.”
But he didn’t look shocked. In fact, Tom was gazing at her, even more intently.
What on earth were they talking about?
“I just want to check that you’re happy with - with that, instead,” he said, pulling her towards -
- his desk?
Hermione felt a sliver of relief. Away from the bed, good -
“Extremely happy,” she said, as he leaned against the heavy wood.
“Good,” he smiled at her, and kissed her briefly, again. His hands moved their way to her shoulders.
Hermione suddenly had a horrible, sinking sensation in her stomach.
Tom gently pushed down.
He thinks she came here to - to -
She resisted sinking to her knees. Tom appeared extremely concerned, brow furrowing. “Are you okay? You know I’m not going to force you. Look, let's just study for the evening instead?”
Christ. Fucking Christ. He was so considerate towards her, imaginary-Astoria.
But - she had to get out of there fast. The book was in her bag. She had the evidence.
Hermione decided that when she died (would it be worth dying right now?), she was going to hell.
She smiled at him. Tried not to give away the self-loathing she felt, the hammering in her chest.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I want to do this.”
Tom exhaled slowly, through his nose. His pale cheeks were gently flushed, hair tousled. He looked ever so handsome, she thought reluctantly. Maybe that would make it easier?
“I just wanted to make sure - it’s a leap for me too, you understand. I didn’t want to treat you like this, at first, but - we’ve talked about this so much - I know you want this. I’ll - I’ll do my best to give you what you want.”
The way he was speaking - was he - excited? She couldn’t help it - she glanced at his trousers. Her mouth went dry as she saw -
“And remember. If you need me to stop, we can stop, take our time. Remember the safeword.”
Hold on.
Hold the fuck on.
Safeword?
“I think,” he whispered sincerely, dark gaze boring into hers, “I think I might want this too.”
And abruptly, chillingly, as though a different person was inhabiting his body and mind, the loving expression melted away.
Tom’s eyes hardened, into chips of ice. His open stance stiffened, and he loomed over her, sinisterly. His warm smile twisted away into something sneering, disgust radiating off of him as he eyed her, from head to toe.
“Get down and kneel,” he spoke, coldly.
Hermione froze. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. This can’t be real -
His hand flew to her hair. But unlike before, when he had gently threaded his fingers through, he fisted his hand tightly in her hair and clenched his fingers.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he whispered, a bright gleam in his eyes, breathing even harder now. “On - your - knees.” He enunciated each word with a pull on her hair, steering her firmly down.
“No, Tom - stop, please stop, I don’t want this,” she tried. Nothing was worth this, this weird, fucked up fantasy between Tom and Astoria -
His eyes glittered. “Do you think you’re worthy enough to use my name?”
He gripped her chin, tightly.
“Ow!” she cried, and tried to push him away, scrabbling frantically at his arm. Adrenaline shot through her body and she fought, fought to escape, kicked out and caught his shins, scratched with her nails, reached down for her wand -
- He grabbed hold of both of her wrists with one hand, twisting them cleanly behind her back. With the other, he pulled out her wand from the waistband of her skirt, and threw it across the room. It clattered to the other side, uselessly.
He pinned her arms behind her back, and titled her face gently to look at him. Somehow, he had turned them around so she was trapped between him and the desk.
He was scaring her now.
“Please, stop - I was wrong, I don’t want this,” she tried again, firmly.
Tom laughed.
“‘Please, stop’,” he parroted her words sharply, mocking her. “Interesting that you ask for mercy now, after begging me for this. Begging for your Lord to treat you like the filth you are.”
Her Lord?
Hermione’s heart pounded as she frantically tried to think, think her way out of this.
She didn’t know their safeword.
She didn’t know it, so he wasn’t stopping.
He had disarmed her.
She was running out of time.
But she had the evidence.
She had an awful lot of evidence.
A tight ball of resignation grew and grew in her throat, choking her.
Tom shook her, once, jolting her from her thoughts.
Slowly, Hermione buried her panic, banished it to the deep corners of her brain. She would survive this, she thought spitefully, she would survive this, and destroy Tom Riddle afterwards.
Hermione caught her breath, and steeled herself.
Tom must have seen something in her expression, because he smiled unnervingly at her.
“Good,” he murmured silkily at her. “I’m glad we’re in agreement. Now, get on your knees, for your Lord.”
She sunk down, glacially, not breaking her hateful stare.
Lord.
That was the second time. But he wasn’t nobility, as far as she knew. Another sick layer to this fantasy?
“Was that difficult, pet?” He caressed her cheek gently. “Was it so difficult to get on your knees for me? Do you think you’re too good to please me, worthless by my feet?”
His voice was low and seductive. He drew her hands to his hips.
When Tom had kissed her lovingly before, pressed himself tenderly against her, Hermione was relieved to notice that he was completely flaccid, had hoped for an innocent kiss, at most then to escape.
Now, though -
- now he strained at the seam of his trousers.
“I can be kind, I can be merciful, but first -” he stroked her face, benevolently “- but first, you must serve me, my dear.”
He smiled down at her, showing very sharp, very white teeth.
“Now, what do you say?”
“Yes,” she said resignedly.
“Yes, what?” Tom asked her calmly, undoing his belt buckle. Even through his trousers and underwear, Hermione saw the thick ridge of his cock twitch once as he palmed himself.
He’s enjoying this, she realised belatedly.
“Yes, sir,” Hermione whispered, working hard to keep the tremor of fear from her voice.
He slid his trousers and underwear down in one fluid motion. Hermione closed her eyes immediately. What she couldn’t see couldn’t hurt her, she repeated in her mind firmly.
Tom laughed, but it was not his usual, refined laugh. This laugh was higher pitched, and devoid of emotion. It made the hairs on her arms stand on end.
“I want you to look me in the eye, look at your better. Remember this, drink in what your Lord is going to give to you,” he murmured.
Hermione didn’t move. Tom held the back of her head and thrust his hips, once, into her face. She felt his swollen cock press into her cheek, her nose, her forehead. His balls brushed her chin, the light dusting of hair kissed her lips. She took a shallow breath in, and, unbidden, the scent of his warm skin, the musk of his cock, invaded her senses.
“Open your eyes. I won’t ask you again.”
She opened her eyes. He was staring down at her, utterly still. A ghost of a smile curled at the corner of his pink mouth.
Hermione wondered how he could look so beautiful, yet so monstrous.
Tom squeezed her wrists, and moved her hands to his cock, pressing into her palms. Finally, she looked at it, unwillingly.
Hermione was no blushing virgin, having had a Muggle boyfriend over the summer, and briefly dating Viktor the year before. Thus far, sex had been a pleasant distraction from studies, a series of sweet, romantic fumblings.
Tom’s cock was thicker than Viktor’s, thicker than her summer boyfriend’s. She had seen cocks which were more bent, with more hair creeping up the shaft. Tom’s was neat and tidy. She was loath to admit it, but he was … aesthetically pleasing. Even his balls were intriguing to look at, heavy and pendulous.
Hesitantly, she wrapped her fingers around his girth. He pulsed, once, and she swore he grew harder still. A droplet beaded up from the slit, and Hermione shuddered as he smeared it over her lower lip.
It’s just - male anatomy, she told herself. It could be anyone’s. You can do this.
But Tom didn’t seem content to let her get on with it.
“It’s time to thank your Lord, you filthy girl,” he purred down at her, brushing her hair away from her face.
“Thank you, my Lord,” Hermione spat out, eyeing him bitterly. His eyes narrowed. She wasn’t expecting him to slap her face, lightning fast. She gasped, more from shock than actual pain.
“And what are you thanking me for, hmm? You should be careful to sound more grateful.”
Tom pumped himself, once, twice, three times. It was hypnotic to watch.
Hermione turned to face him, cheek feeling hot. He hadn't slapped her with any real force, but the threat was implicit.
He continued to stroke himself.
“Thank you, my Lord,” she began quietly. “Thank you for allowing me to please you.” She reached out to take over, and he threaded his hands through her hair, possessively. His cock was hot, and she steadily started to fist him with both hands. He sighed, and leaned against the desk.
Hermione glanced at his face. He had titled his head back, lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded. She wondered if she was the first to touch him like this, to see him come undone, to see him fray at the edges. Perfectly behaved Tom Riddle, so tightly controlled, the mask she knew he wore for everything dropping with every twist of her wrist, with every flick of her thumb over the head of his cock. He groaned, loudly, as she cupped his balls.
“Thank you for this opportunity you’re giving me.”
Hermione had never hated herself more than in that moment, pumping Tom Riddle’s cock and thanking him for it. She hated that she heard every hitch in his breath, could smell his excitement, could see his precum glistening at the tip. A small, dark part of her was proud, proud and glad that she was good at this, could make him teeter on the edge, could tilt the power back in her favour with just her hands, her Muggleborn hands.
As if he knew what she was thinking, Tom canted his head, and smiled mirthlessly down at her. His eyes were bright with arousal.
“How many cocks have you sucked before, pet?” he said cruelly, as though to shame her. Tom prised open her jaw, and pulled away her hands.
Hermione refused to be shamed. “Several, my Lord. Why, how many have you?”
She expected him to hit her again. Instead, looking thoughtful, he waved his hand in front of her.
Nothing happened.
But then -
- Hermione tried to speak, she really did. But no sound came out.
He had Silenced her, non-verbally and wandlessly.
Tom laughed, that same high-pitched sound. Slowly, furiously, she turned to face him.
He was stroking his cock faster now, eyes boring into hers. A small smile played on his lips, and there was malice in his voice when he spoke.
“You talk too much, you know,” he breathed out. “You always have. Do you think I want to hear you speak? Do you think you’re good for anything, except this?”
She shuddered as he dipped his thumb into her mouth, swiping over her tongue.
“Open up,” Tom said in a low, beautiful voice, and pushed the tip of his cock into her mouth. She jerked away from him, but he held her hair tightly, cradled her skull in an iron grasp.
Hermione gagged as he slid against the back of her throat.
“You can take this, can’t you?” he crooned at her. She wanted to vomit.
His movements became smooth, and he settled into a fast, too fast rhythm. Tears prickled in the back of her eyes as he thrust inside of her. She was about to bite him - he must have anticipated this, she thought angrily - for he said something that made her blood freeze.
“Dirty - filthy - Mudblood,” he groaned, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck. “Gagging on my cock. I can see you drooling over yourself. Disgusting. Vile.”
Did he know? Hermione’s jaw slackened against her will, and his fingers twitched as he slid a welcome inch deeper.
No. He couldn’t know. This was just his sick, depraved fantasy. How could Astoria have agreed to this?
She hoped fervently that he was nearly done. She hoped she could wait him out passively.
Tom continued to push forcefully into her mouth. He closed his eyes, and started speaking in a low, fast voice.
“You’ve dreamed about this, haven’t you? Dreamed about me using you, every hole that you have. And maybe, if you’re very good, I’ll let you do this again.”
Her jaw ached, and yet her cries were soundless. His balls slapped against her chin. She was so, so angry -
But then, unexpectedly, he slowed down. His pace became more gentle, something she could take more easily. She breathed through her nose, and concentrated on not choking. This was - well, it wasn’t okay, not by any stretch of the meaning, but it was more similar to what she had experienced before.
“You’re being so good, my own little Mudblood,” Tom praised her, almost tenderly. “You’re taking me so well. This is better than the other cocks you’ve sucked, isn't it?”
His tone was strange. He sounded - jealous, Hermione realised. He brushed the tears away from her eyes, smoothed the sweaty hair from her brow. He moved more slowly still, his cock sliding against her tongue almost fully out of her mouth. The tip brushed her lower lip slickly, and he slid once more inside her, almost to the hilt. But her throat was more relaxed, ready for him, and this time, she didn't gag. This is easy - you can’t break me, Riddle, she thought, oddly smug.
Tom chuckled, softly, his movements becoming somewhat erratic.
The most misplaced sense of pride swelled in Hermione’s chest.
An idea bloomed. Could she speed up this ordeal?
He may have taken away her voice, but he couldn’t take away what she could do.
Hermione relaxed her jaw, and as he pulled back, she swirled her tongue over the head of his cock.
He - his hips actually stuttered. Tom made a low, keening noise in the back of his throat and stilled himself abruptly, eyes widening in shock. She ignored how pleasant it sounded. It's physiological, get a grip Hermione -
It suddenly dawned on her. Maybe … maybe this was his first blow job.
(Was the only reason he had slowed was because he was trying to hold off from coming, after barely a minute?)
Wait - was that what Tom Riddle thought oral sex was? Just ramming himself into her face? The Slytherin sexual education left a lot to be desired, she thought scornfully.
No, Hermione declared staunchly. She would not let herself be used, so ineptly.
She brought one hand to his hip and the other to the base, holding him steady, caressing the underside of his cock with her tongue once more. Fresh precum coated her tongue, salty and bitter. She noted a flush creeping up his neck, and distractedly wondered where it began.
He stared at her, a hungry gleam in his eyes. He seemed to be holding his breath, tension heavy in the line of his shoulders.
He’s waiting, she thought, self-satisfied. He wants that again, and he knows he has to wait for it.
She blinked sweetly up at him, and slowly, tortuously, bobbed her head down, as she fisted her hand up.
“Yes, like that,” Tom said, his voice slightly strangled. Hermione didn’t speed up - she worked him in tandem with her hand, hollowing her cheeks, gently sucking, tracing the head with the tip of her tongue.
It was the first time in seven years that she had ever seen the perfectly poised Head Boy at anything resembling a loss. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, for he threaded his fingers through her hair once more, lightly, then rested them on her shoulders. A second later, as though he had reconsidered, he cupped her jaw.
Isn’t this better when you’re not slapping me? Hermione thought drolly. She sped up her motions, changed the angle of her head, and gently squeezed his balls.
She must have struck gold - he really seemed to like that, for he moaned shamelessly, a deep, throaty rumble she would have never imagined from tightly-buttoned Tom Riddle. Then again, Hermione had never imagined being in this position with him.
(She loved confirmation that she was good at this; felt a savage glee that Tom Riddle was becoming undone because of her.)
“You talented girl,” Tom muttered, feverishly, stroking her face. “You were made for this. You’re being so good to your Lord, my filthy, brilliant girl.”
Hermione tried very hard to ignore the effect his open, honest praise had on her. Something must have showed on her face, she couldn't say what, because he -
- he changed tactics.
"Look at you. You enjoy how good you are at this, don't you? Making me lose control. I wonder -" he gasped as she did something particularly clever with her lips - "if I were to reach down, would you enjoy me touching you? Would you be wet, just from enjoying my cock? Just from pleasing me?"
No, she thought hotly, although the traitorous heat between her legs suggested otherwise. It's purely physiological - and what would you even know, Riddle?
Maybe it was a good thing that she was Silenced, to stop her pulling off him and arguing. Instead, she continued her same motions, alternating tongue and hands.
Soon, very soon after, Tom’s thighs started to twitch. He made a hoarse, gravelly noise, and tried to pull away from her.
No, she thought furiously. You. Will. Come. Now.
Hermione glanced at the clock on the desk. Amazingly - incredibly - she had just over five minutes left.
Tom shuddered, and the muscles in his belly clenched. She looked up at him, not breaking eye contact.
Look at me. Look at what the Mudblood can make you do. Look at the power I have over you.
“Yes,” he gasped, “yes, yes, take it -”
His hard cock pulsed once, twice against her tongue. She clutched his hips and pulled him deep in her mouth. She felt him twitch again, felt his balls tighten -
- and finally, finally, he was coming, hot and bitter and thick down her throat. Hermione kept working his cock, his balls, fixed on wringing every last drop, determined to take this from him. She stared him dead in the eye, daring him to look away first. His face openly contorted in pleasure, and he groaned loudly, eyes rolling to the back of his head.
Satisfied, she slowed down her ministrations, absent-mindedly noting the small aftershocks that wracked his body. Eventually Tom exhaled deeply, and nudged her away. She released his softening cock with a wet pop, and stood up, knees clicking painfully.
She eyed him, critically. His eyes had fluttered shut, chest heaving. The faint trace of sweat glistened in his hairline; his normally immaculate hair tousled beyond recognition. His cheeks were pink, his shirt outrageously rumpled. He looked annoyingly attractive.
He looked as though he’d been thoroughly fucked.
Not that he's ever done that, she thought spitefully. She would put money on it, in fact.
Hermione's legs shook slightly as she made her way to her wand. Wordlessly, she restored her voice.
She cracked her jaw, and rolled her shoulders. She turned to face him.
Tom hadn't uttered a single word, but had managed to tidy himself away. The familiar mask he wore was perfectly back on his face but, the way he was holding himself - his stiff posture, Hermione would place money that he was wary of her.
She smiled at him, feeling powerful.
(she ignored the sticky, hot pulse between her thighs)
"Tom, darling," Hermione batted her eyelashes at him, as she gathered her bag. "Thank you so much - you're right, I got exactly what I wanted."
Her voice was husky. She could still taste him.
"Oh, and look!" she exclaimed, pointing at the clock, "plenty of time for me to get to the library. That didn't take nearly as long as I thought."
He remained unnervingly silent in the face of her taunting. She chanced a glance behind her as she swept out of his room.
Tom was stood stock still, eyes burning, a muscle jumping in his neck the only indication of his mood.
Hermione couldn't resist a final, parting jibe.
"No need to offer to give me a hand. Better leave it to the experts, hmm?"
She knew that Tom knew it was her.
(Looking back, she wondered if he had known the moment he caught her. She wouldn't put it past him, the evil bastard.)
It was the way that Parvati whispered in her ear, pointing to a red-eyed Astoria at the Slytherin table over breakfast, Malfoy now angling to pull out her chair, that Tom Riddle had unceremonously broken up with her the night before.
It was the way that the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end when he sat behind her in Transfiguration. She was careful to avoid his gaze, careful to stick with friends, to sleep and study in the Gryffindor Common Room.
Lavender nudged her elbow in Herbology. “Hermione - don’t look, but I think Tom Riddle is eyeing you up!”
Hermione did not look. Tom was certainly not eyeing her up.
She ignored him, as she had been doing for days. Instead, she expertly manipulated her Bubotuber, stroked the fleshy, thickened stem, and daintily caught the thick pus in her flask.
“Merlin’s left tit!” cried a panicked voice to her left.
Lavender gasped. Hermione continued milking her Bubotuber serenely.
“Mr Malfoy! Straight to the Hospital Wing with you - what on earth were you thinking, horsing around like that -”
At this, Hermione risked a glance from the corner of her eye. Malfoy appeared to have been caught in the face by an errant spray of pus. Harry and Ron were in fits in the corner. Pansy Parkinson was frantically dabbing the viscous liquid from his swollen face.
In the chaos, no one noticed Tom Riddle, knuckles white around his Bubotuber.
No one but Hermione.
In retrospect, Hermione thought sourly, she should have reported Tom's book as soon as she left his room.
She should have, except … Except, even with cross-referencing his scribbled notes to the book, she couldn’t figure out exactly what Tom was angling for. She couldn't even begin to crack whatever cipher he'd used with his notes.
She just needed a bit more time with this book, with his notes, and then she would understand -
Instead, one week after The Incident (as she had carefully boxed it away in her mind), she was pulled out of Arithmancy by a furious McGonagall to her office.
"Miss Granger - I am so disappointed in you," her head of house scolded her harshly.
Hermione's heart dropped as McGonagall pulled a large book from her desk.
Secrets of the Darkest Arts.
"Professor - I can explain -" she began earnestly, but McGonagall was having precisely none of it.
"Miss Granger, you may be a very intelligent witch, but you clearly lack the common sense to avoid dark knowledge. I don’t even want to know where you got ahold of this." The Professor Banished the book unceremoniously.
"Detention. The rest of the year. Fridays and Saturdays."
Hermione almost screamed in frustration. "No, Professor, you really don't understand-"
"Don't interrupt me, Hermione! I understand perfectly. Professor Dumbledore wanted you suspended for this, and Head Girl rescinded. He feels very strongly about books like these." She breathed through pursed lips, calming down.
Hermione paled. Suspended? Just because of a book she had carefully stashed away in her dorm?
"Luckily for you, Miss Granger, the Head Boy was able to vouch for you. The Headmaster was quite surprised, I won’t lie. As such, he has kindly agreed to supervise your detentions. Consider yourself fortunate."
Hermione irrationally hoped that she meant Dumbledore, that it would be Dumbledore giving up his weekend to supervise her -
- somebody coughed politely at the door.
McGonagall turned, and her lips narrowed even further. “Mr Riddle. Lurking, is it?”
“Not at all, Professor. It is simply that, I wanted to make arrangements with Hermione regarding her detentions. After all -“ and Tom stepped in from the shadows, the light flickering across his handsome face “- I know how important Head Girl is to Hermione. I wouldn't want her to lose that position over a misunderstanding."
Tom stared at her, unblinkingly. "Hermione really strives to put the Head into Head Girl. She certainly would want to show penance, wouldn’t you agree?”
Hermione’s mouth was dry. She looked to McGonagall, hoping that her professor would see reason, would save her -
- but McGonagall nodded briskly.
“Thank you, Mr Riddle. No time like the present. I have a meeting with Professor Sprout now - lock up behind me, would you?”
“Of course, Professor,” Tom said, untroubled as McGonagall swept past them.
The door swung shut.
They were alone.